


it was always you

by kblaze2



Series: i'm coming home to you [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, History Nerd Bucky Barnes, Homecoming, M/M, Pining, study abroad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kblaze2/pseuds/kblaze2
Summary: Steve's been off studying art in Europe for the semester. And Bucky? He wasn't handling it as well as he thought.





	it was always you

**Author's Note:**

> oh look!!! another fic i wrote when i should've been studying for finals!!!

Bucky did not think this through.

Usually, European History would be one of the highlights of his week. A straight hour and a half of political strife and empire expansion, war and decline, and hilarious propaganda, twice a week? It was screaming his name. So he practically built his schedule around it. This one class. Biting his nails all throughout web registration, only to cheer like the fucking nerd he is when he got in. No one heard him, thank God; he was in his room alone. He texted Steve of course, who replied with the appropriate amount of happiness a best friend should. And it was genuine. Clint's exact reply was _congrats here's a gold star_ with said star attached in an image. Bucky had told him to fuck off and Clint said there's no way he'd be getting a kiss with that attitude. Bucky told him to fuck off again.

Steve, at least, willingly trailed behind Bucky in the bookstore, listening from shelf to shelf as Bucky picked up all the books he would need for the class, rambling non-stop about how excited he was and how awesome the professor is and how he can take her senior seminar now that he's taking this. Steve helped Bucky carry his books, since he didn’t have any of his own. Bucky pretended not to notice, kept his mouth flapping like he has since birth, and it was okay.

But now, he's sitting here in this dirty box of a classroom, hearing England and Germany and France and Italy every fucking day, every day Steve is off in one of those countries, because yeah, he went on a semester long study abroad art tour of Europe, and didn't tell Bucky until well into the summer, and what could Bucky do besides congratulate him?

_Of course_ Bucky is happy for him. He's not completely selfish. Steve had Skyped him just to tell him, and his face lit up like the sun, bright and ecstatic. His cheeks were impossibly flushed and Bucky had to swallow hard, had to push it all back down, dig his nails into his jeans so he wouldn't give it away. Wouldn't say anything but what Steve wanted to hear, needed to hear from Bucky. Bucky wouldn’t deny him. Wouldn't turn down a chance to praise Steve endlessly, one: because it would only deepen that blush to Steve's skin, travel red and splotched all down his neck and over his shoulders, would make him duck his head in that bashful way he does whenever he gets a compliment, the way Bucky loves; two: because Steve deserves nothing but the wholehearted pure truth, and that's this: he is a goddamn talent. His art has made Bucky cry, has left him speechless, has made him lie down on his bedroom floor and think about the meaning of it all for hours on end. Any medium Steve tackles, he masters. Painting, drawing, sculpting, anything. Steve takes it head-on and doesn't stop until he comes out victorious on the other side, with some magnificent portrait of his mother, or Brooklyn landscape, or some postmodern creation Bucky does his best to understand, and even if he can't, he's still floored. Steve knows intricacies in a way Bucky's never seen before; every piece of art he creates is intimately crafted, with all of Steve's heart behind it. His soul. There's been plenty of nights when Bucky has had to physically drag Steve away from a piece, because it had been two days and he hadn't eaten, or had an exam in an hour, or the most common, "You have been sitting hunched over in the same clothes for longer than humanly advised, and I am tired of being subject to your body odor and cleaning up your granola bar wrappers lest we get ants that eat me alive in my sleep," a direct quote from Sam.

In short, Bucky is in complete awe of everything Steve makes. Everything he's accomplished. He had a small gallery spot over the summer and Bucky had been so proud he was ready to burst. Steve's been given glowing reviews and recommendations by nearly every professor he's had. Even if he was in a class that wasn't his strong suit, he didn't let that deter him. He kept working for it, and he _excelled_. Bucky's grateful to have been able to been by his side the whole time.

So when Steve told him of the study abroad, tried to downplay it like it wasn’t a monumental fucking deal, like he didn't want this more than anything, Bucky had done the only sensible thing. He dragged all their friends over to Steve's and threw an impromptu celebration party, because Steve needs to know they all believe in him, that they all know he deserves this in spades, even if he doesn't think it for himself.

After, Steve wrapped his big arms around Bucky's shoulders, and tugged him in close, and held him there for what felt like an eternity. Bucky could get lost in Steve, truth be told. He has, he's pretty sure. He hugged Steve back, tried not to squeeze too tight, tried not to break down when Steve whispered:

"Thank you, Buck. You're the best friend I could've ever asked for." And then he pulled back, giving Bucky the sweetest smile, and Bucky could do nothing but reciprocate. Because goddamn if the sight of Steve Rogers' smiling doesn’t send him soaring; doesn't clench at his heart and fill him up with warmth.

Bucky is fine. Or so he tells himself. And then he walks into HIST 342 and that all goes out the window. There are fewer texts from Steve every week, but he always makes sure to share what country he's in. He sent Bucky a picture of the Berlin Wall Memorial, the ruins of a mystery in Greece, the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, the Spanish Steps, Big Ben. Bucky nearly died with each picture. There were a couple selfies thrown in there, because life is cruel and Bucky is nothing but a pawn in her game of torture.

But that was a month ago. The last text he has from Steve is a smiley face, an end to a disjointed conversation in which he wished Bucky good luck on his finals. Which are next week. Which means Steve's coming back the week after that. _Two weeks_ until Steve comes home, comes back to America, back to New York, back to Bucky.

Not that'll it be anything special to Steve, probably. Why would he want to come back here when he's traveled all of Europe? Tasted their wine and eaten their delicacies and breathed their air and seen their art. _Real_ art. The art that shaped the world, shaped history.

Why would he be excited to come back to his rowdy group of friends and ridiculous college tuition, when there are much better things out there for him? Why would he want to come back to Bucky, when Bucky is too chicken to even tell him he loves him?

Fuck, Steve's probably found someone by now. Europe's teeming with bachelorettes, it's a cultural cesspool of relationship material, of intellectual and creative stimulation. Everything over there is better; worth it. Bucky? Here, in dirty ol' New York? Not so much.

Bucky tries his best not to be depressed about it, since it is finals week and all. It doesn't work.

"If you sigh forlornly _one more fucking time_ ," Sam mutters, wagging his pen at Bucky across the table. "I have two, that's right, _two_ , exams tomorrow alone, and I would really appreciate it if I could get through a paragraph on the corpus callosum without having to hear your sad exhales every three goddamn seconds."

Bucky gapes. Clint pretends to be buried in his textbook, even though he was literally scrolling through his phone for the past ten minutes.

Nat elbows Sam. "Don't be rude."

Sam's eyes flick between her and Bucky, and then he sighs. He drops his pen, where it hits the table with a light _thud_ , and scrubs his hands over his face. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to yell. I'm just stressed as hell and — I'm sorry."

"Um." Bucky picks at his nails. "It's okay," he says, even though he's internally freaking out because he had no idea he was being that obvious, and he's ready to crawl in a hole and hide for the rest of eternity.

Sam offers him a smile, and Nat looks pleased, so they all turn back to their studying. For about two seconds, that is, because Nat, apparently, was not done.

"You've been wistful for nearly three years now, but now all of a sudden he's gone you've decided to go full emotional pining?" she asks, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork, and popping it in her mouth casually.

Bucky splutters. Sam's head pops back up, and Clint's attention is on the group now.

"Oh, so we've decided we're talking about this, then?" Clint asks, and he puts his phone down and leans in and honestly, _what_. Bucky's palms are sweating.

"Leave him alone, the love of his life abandoned him —"

"He didn't _abandon_ me," Bucky interrupts, and shit —

"Ha! So you admit you love him," Clint jeers.

"Clint, we already knew that, that's not the point of this."

"What do you mean you _knew?_ " Bucky squeaks, and oh God. Oh dear, oh God, oh Jesus fucking shitting Christ on a stick. He's gonna throw up. Everything in him is churning, his chest is shredding apart, his skin is on fire, and his throat is dry as a bone. He drops his head on the table in an attempt to hide peacefully with his shame. With his friends, it, of course, doesn't work.

"Dude," Clint says, trying to lift Bucky's head back up.

"Bucky, come on," Nat says, kicking him gently under the table. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. We've known for a while."

"Oh, my _God_ ," Bucky whines, still not sitting up. He's going to die. Just self-combust right here and now. At least he won't have to take finals.

"Get over yourself, man," Sam tells him. "We don't care. In fact, we support your feelings and wish to aid you in your endeavors." This gets Bucky to raise his head a little, just enough so he can rest his chin on the table. He peers at Sam dubiously.

"But we agreed we won't," Nat interjects, "because this is something you have to do for yourself."

"But we _are_ tired of waiting," Clint shares. "So you should definitely do something about it when he gets back."

"I —" Bucky starts, and that's all he has to say. All he can say. His brain is melted. "What would I — he hasn't even — what. No."

Nat levels him with a look. "You'll never know if you don't try. And you might be surprised with the results. Just a thought." She's hinting at something, something that gets Bucky on the edge of his seat. Makes his heart beat faster. He narrows his eyes at her. "Moving on," she starts, waving a hand as if to physically clear the air. She folds her hands together and rests her chin atop them, still staring at Bucky. "Why are you so upset? He's been gone for over four months."

"I — I don't know," Bucky lies. He stares down at his textbook. Maybe if he stares hard enough it'll catch fire, and then they'll have to leave the dining hall. And then he can run away. To, like, South Africa, maybe.

"Are you afraid he's gonna come back and want nothing to do with your tired Brooklyn trash self?" Clint asks, and okay, ow. How he has the ability to be right on the nose with his observations is frankly disturbing, considering this is the guy who literally broke his nose by walking into a streetlamp pole.

Bucky must give it away — though he doesn’t know how since he hasn't stopped staring at these pages on the French Revolution — because Nat reaches across and takes his hand. Squeezes. And then slaps him on the forehead.

"Don't be ridiculous, James."

Bucky rolls his eyes. This isn’t a time to be 'James'd,' this is the time where in an alternate universe his friends would drop the subject and let him live in his sad, irrevocably hopeless crush-on-his-best-friend torturous state of mind and that'd be it. Bucky is granted with no such luck.

"You're genuinely one of Steve's favorite people, there is no way he would not be excited to see you when he comes back."

"Yeah," Sam adds, leaning in, "you're all over his Facebook, know the signs."

"10 Ways Your Man Is Secretly Showing You He Wants Your Dick," Clint says, arcing his hand as he speaks.

" _Clint!_ " Nat and Sam yell. Bucky wants to die even more now. He falls back onto the table. Then lifts his head back up, eyebrow raised.

"Wait. Do you — I mean, does he — you think?"

"I know we all speak multiple languages here, but whatever you just said was not one of them," Clint tells him, unhelpfully.

Sam, ignoring Clint, says, "Listen, Bucky. It's not our place to tell you, but we are very not so subtly egging you on, and we do care about both you and Steve, so please consider everything that's going on at this table. Look at my eyes, man. These eyes don't lie." He stares Bucky down for good measure, unblinking and unnerving.

Bucky groans, hiding his face in his hands. "I don’t even know what to say. You guys _really_ knew?"

"Well," Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nat's like creepily perceptive, as you know. So she figured it out."

"That, and you stare at his ass a lot," Clint inputs, with a shrug. Bucky wants to hit him, and then finish his journey towards death.

"Just… think about it?" Nat suggests. "Well, not now, obviously. Put it aside until finals are over. But think about everything we've said, and just the general past three years of your life. You know what kind of a person Steve is, even if it doesn't go the way you planned, he would never want to do anything to make you upset. You know that." She speaks gently, voice steady and calm and unwavering, looking at Bucky with one of her more kind expressions.

That's what gets Bucky to listen more than anything. To all of it. He takes her advice and manages to focus his efforts on finals; doesn't let anything else filter into his mind as he writes his four papers and studies for his two exams, just blasts his study playlist and drowns out everything that isn't pertinent. (It's a bit of a harder feat when he works on his assignment for European History, but he manages to get through it).

Suddenly, finals are over, and he's packing up his room, already thinking about the milkshake he's gonna treat himself to from his favorite spot back home, when his phone pings.

**_steeb:_** _Hey!! They changed the flight details, I'm coming back on the 15 th now. Delta 4567 @ 4:22. You're still good to pick me up?_

Bucky stares, swallowing. He had put his phone on Do Not Disturb mode for the past week, par Nat's sage advice. Also, so he would feel better about not replying to Steve. He just figured it made more sense to avoid everybody. At least then his excuse about finals would be somewhat real.

He thumbs through and sees Steve had texted him a few times throughout the week, with a few pictures of Stonehenge, a trademark Steve selfie included, in which he does not know his proper selfie-taking angle but he still looks like a goddamn angel. Especially with all that winter gear on. The tip of his nose is red, Bucky sees.

His phone pings again.

**_steeb:_ ** _Miss you!_

And Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky needs to sit down. Then he can form a coherent thought. He needs to approach this with the utmost delicacy.

**_buck:_** _hi! sorry i went off the grid. finals. good news tho: i totally kicked their asses_

**_buck:_ ** _im still gonna pick you up, dw._

Bucky thinks things through. Right now it's the 12th, which means he now has three days instead of five to figure out what the fuck he's gonna do. He… thinks he's come to a conclusion? Maybe. Part of him is still trying to talk the rest of him out of it. The other part of him, the one that sounds strangely like Natasha, is telling him to shut the fuck up and get the fuck over it and go with his gut. Although his gut isn't the most reliable. Every time he thinks about Steve it gets all queasy and turns to goo. Which Bucky knows means something but he's kind of ignoring it. If he doesn't then the rest of him will respond accordingly, which means chest aches and heart pains and tight throats and daydreams.

**_steeb:_ ** _Great! I knew you could do it!! Milkshakes on me when I get back._

**_steeb:_ ** _:)_

Christ, Bucky is in trouble.

~

The thing about December 15th is: it's cold as fuck, and close to Christmas, so JFK is packed. More so than usual, considering it's JFK. So Bucky is not really that thrilled to be there. But then his eye catches on the Arrivals board, and Steve's flight is up there, un-delayed and in the air, set to land within the hour. Bucky may have gotten here a few hours too early, but he tells himself he's just being cautious.

"You only get to the airport early when you're _flying out_ , not when you're picking up. No plane is ever early," Nat taunts in his ear.

"Fuck off," Bucky replies, because she is right and he has no valid argument.

"Have you decided yet?" she asks.

Bucky stares down at the flowers in his hand, and tries not to sweat. He nods, then remembers Nat can't see him. "Yeah, I —" he inhales. "I think so."

"Good." Bucky can hear her smile through the phone, so that's… encouraging. He thinks. "Text me a pic of him when he gets there."

"Why?"

"Clint and I have a bet about his beard," she explains easily.

"Oh, my God." Bucky slumps in the chair, and looks at the ceiling. "Wait. How do you not know? Has he not been sending pictures?"

"Nope," she says, loud in his ear. "Just to you and Sam, mostly you. Sam hasn't gotten one since Athens."

Fuck. That was in October. "Oh," Bucky breathes.

"Yeah," Nat agrees. "So, make sure to document the evidence. If you can keep your hands off him long enough."

" _Nat_ ," Bucky spits, but he doesn't have much else to say. Hopefully, she's right. "I'm really freaking out," he admits, even though he knows she probably knows that already. It's just, like, solidarity or whatever. Someone to talk to. It's hard to be embarrassed with someone who reads you as easily as she reads the Cyrillic alphabet.

"I know," she says, not unkindly. "But it's gonna be okay. No matter what happens, Steve does care about you."

"Yeah," Bucky mumbles. Then, "Fuck."

"What?"

"His flight is here." Bucky just stares at the screen above the Baggage Claim corridor, where it says Steve's flight info, in garishly bright yellow. It hurts Bucky's eyes. His heart rate picks up.

"It's okay," Nat says. "Breathe. You got this."

"Uh-huh," Bucky answers, distracted. "Um."

"You do," Nat reminds him. "Goodbye."

"Bye," he says, still staring ahead. It takes him a while to register the noise in his ear as the dial tone, which means Nat hung up, which means it's really just all up to him now. Waiting for Steve to walk through those doors.

He pockets his phone and stands with the first slide of those automatic doors, as the first people start to filter through. His eyes scan each person, looking for that shock of blond hair, the wide chest, those stupidly pink lips that are somehow always upturned in a smile.

And.

Fuck him. He doesn’t see Steve at first. His hair is darker, and he's wearing a gray peacoat even though they're indoors, and his head is turning this way and that. For Bucky. Presumably. Then Steve frowns and pulls out his phone, and Bucky can see him turn it back on. He's still walking, still looking, and Jesus fuck Bucky is just _standing_ there like an idiot. He clears his throat, pulls himself together.

"Steve!" he yells, and that's it. That does it; Steve's head whips up at the sound of his name, and he grins wide and broad, blinding, and then he's coming towards Bucky. He's pushing past people and Bucky feels his legs taking him forward, and fuck, Steve is so beautiful, and, Bucky notices, has some scruff of his beard left. Fuck.

And then Steve's arms are around him, and they're pressed together, and Bucky is so _warm_. His best friend is back _home_ , and he's here and he's real and he's holding Bucky so tight, like he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Bucky knows he wouldn't.

They stand like that for a while, and Bucky loses track of time. Steve fits with him perfectly, easily, and it feels so _goddamn right_ and — fuck. Bucky is doing this. He's going to. He pulls back and looks up at Steve, and Steve's smiling down at him. His hands move from Bucky's shoulders to the back of his head, and he just keeps looking Bucky in the eye, and Bucky doesn't want to look at anything else ever again. He thought he knew the color blue, thought he had it all figured out, thought it was so simple, but staring into Steve's eyes right now is a whole other truth he hasn't ever known. They're clear and cerulean and there's a speck of the lightest hazel in his left eye, and his right crinkles just a bit more. There's something cloudy in them, too; some light grey storm brewing in his pupils, and it's distractingly beautiful. Devastatingly, so. Then Bucky remembers they're just standing there in the middle of the airport, staring at each other, and Bucky's heart jumps, tries to escape out of his chest. He's gonna do it. It feels inevitable, predestined. He _wants_ to, which is the scariest part of it all. But, really, it's not. Because it's Steve. And he's Bucky. They've conquered worse.

So he opens his mouth to speak, to finally say it, but then Steve's fingers are in his hair, and. And. And his lips are on Bucky's. They're kissing. Bucky's brain whites out. Steve hesitates against him, pushes his tongue gently in, just a little more, and Bucky. Bucky snaps out of it. He pulls Steve in, opens his mouth up more, mingles with him. He presses a hand to the back of his neck, and breathes him in. He kisses Steve. He _kisses_ Steve. And Steve kisses back. Steve kissed him first.

"Wait," Bucky pulls back, and Steve kind of follows, and it's so goddamn cute, how confused he looks. But Bucky will address that later. "You — Fuck you, you can't kiss me first. I — I — I had a whole plan!" Bucky throws his arms in the air for good measure.

Steve still looks at him confused, lips slightly downturned, and then he breaks into a grin. And giggles. Fucking giggles. "You had a plan?" he snorts.

Bucky is annoyed. This is not funny. He's had angina for the past three days and this fucker just thinks he can _laugh_ at him? "Yes!" Bucky whines. "See? Look! I had flowers!" He waves said bouquet in Steve's face, a couple of the petals flying off in his efforts. "I was gonna — fuck. I didn't know yet, but you definitely were not supposed to kiss _me_ first. Asshole."

"How am I the asshole?" Steve laughs. "I just got here!"

"And you've already _ruined_ everything," Bucky grumbles, but it's more just because he's stubborn and needs to continue to the argument for some insatiable reason, rather than he actually _wants_ to continue the argument. What he wants, is to keep kissing Steve. But. Principles and all that.

"Buck," Steve says, still chuckling even though he's trying to school his face into something serious; appeasing. He reaches out and takes Bucky's hand, and fuck if Bucky isn't weak and just melts right there. He keeps his frown, though. Well, until Steve twines his other hand in his hair again. And then he's smiling at him again. "Thank you for the flowers, Buck." He leans in closer, and then they're kissing again, and there are fireworks in Bucky's stomach, his heart thumping fast. Yet, his arms go right where they're supposed to, wrapped around Steve's neck, and he leans up and into him, letting the kiss deepen, letting Steve's tongue slip into his mouth. And it's fucking glorious is what it is. Steve hums against him, and then smiles, and then Bucky smiles, and then they're not even kissing anymore, just standing there, smiles pressed together like a couple of idiots. Bucky couldn't be happier.

"So," Steve starts. He rubs his thumbs along Bucky's jawline. He swallows. "We should probably talk about this, huh?"

"Yeah," Bucky agrees, still grinning. "Milkshakes?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Steve says. Slips his fingers in between Bucky's. They start to walk towards the exit when Bucky remembers.

"Wait." He stops them, and pulls out his phone. "Kiss me on the cheek," he instructs.

Steve looks confused, then sees the group chat open on Bucky's phone. He rolls his eyes. "Bet?"

"About us? No." Bucky tries not to jolt excitedly at _us_. He continues, "But there was a lot of badgering. Clint and Nat had a bet about your beard, though." Steve nods at this as if it makes sense, and then leans in and obliges, pressing his lips to Bucky's cheek. His nose digs into Bucky's skin, and so does his stubble, and Bucky loves it. He snaps the picture. Then turns his head and gives Steve a kiss on the lips, because he can. Steve smiles. Bucky sends the picture.

They leave, and when they get to the diner, they sit in their favorite booth, with their mint chocolate chip shakes, and shared plate of fries. Bucky doesn't check his phone until they're settled in.

**_bucko:_** .img_374

**_bucko:_ ** _:)_

**_Dad Sam™:_ ** _FINALLY_

**_Natatta:_ ** _I will not say I told you so._

**_Natatta:_** ♡

**_clintator:_ ** _HA! BEARD! I WIN_

Bucky shows Steve the texts. He laughs, and then dips a fry into Bucky's shake even though they got the same one. Not that Bucky cares. He reciprocates. It goes like that, Steve telling him all about Europe, about all the art, all the sights.

Then he reaches for Bucky's hand, a bit of ketchup on the side of his mouth. "No place like home, though."

Bucky beams.

**Author's Note:**

> i did not mean to repeat the airport and flowers thing, they wrote themselves in there honestly
> 
> send me prompts @wakandabucky on twitter!!


End file.
